


Burn

by Persephone



Series: Five Years the Elder [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brothers, French Kissing, Love, M/M, Sibling Incest, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 17, Faramir is finally ready to demand some things of Boromir.</p><p>Inspired by: <a href="http://tolkienfanart.com/gallery/artist_image.php?GAid=3&GPid=4&GIid=48&home=1">The Embrace</a>, by E.W.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** In this story, Faramir is 17.

Boromir held his brother by the waist, wanting to say many things. But there were too many places to start.

Faramir stood unmoving, his head deeply bowed, his dark hair falling forward over his shoulder. At seventeen he was nearly as tall as Boromir, his muscles carved beautifully into his nearly perfect body.

Boromir’s hands pressed slowly into his body. Faramir stood with a stillness that seemed impossible to Boromir, his serious mind coursing with secrets he could not begin to deduce.

Faramir waited for him to speak, his gentle breathing into the warm space between them making his chest rise and fall. And except for that sound, there was silence.

Boromir didn’t breathe at all. He could not, for between his hands stood what mattered most to him in this world, and he was daunted.

He closed his eyes and breathed in measured breaths against Faramir’s cheek. He worked to find his words.

Faramir still waited, his body resting trustingly in Boromir’s large hands, his arms hanging down his sides, a warm statue in marble. Very slowly, he brushed his nose back and forth against his brother’s warm skin, and in the dark silence behind his closed eyelids Boromir listened to what Faramir was asking of him.

Four years ago he had opened his eyes to the need inside him, and he had taken Faramir again and again to quench it.

But it was a need like none other, for it gave rather than took, and so in every moment of those four years Faramir had owned him.

In owning him his brother had saved him from self-accusation, from a humiliation that could have consumed him, from torment that would have driven him from their white city.

In owning him his brother had tamed his urgency to love without heed, as if in rushing their act he would lessen the agony.

And so it was that while still a child Faramir had had the strength of mind to properly consummate their love when Boromir had been brought to his knees by it.

For four years Faramir had worked hard to get them to this point. And now they stood at the end of one thing, the start of another.

They would move forward, but Faramir was going to wait for Boromir to take them wherever they were headed. Because the living heart that Boromir held between his hands was no longer that of a child, was no longer living in complete assurance of itself.

Now it asked to rely on the love of an older brother, on the strength of a man.

The Steward’s second son, Minas Tirith’s second warrior, Gondor’s second lord.

His first love.

Which mattered the most was not a difficult question for him to answer. But it was difficult to prove. 

Yet from this day forward, proof was in fact what was required of him.

“It is very hard for me to say this,” he said hoarsely.

“Because we are brothers?”

Boromir shook his head slowly, his black hair brushing against Faramir’s. That was long in the past.

“Because…it burns.”

Faramir swayed toward him, almost imperceptibly. He was silent for moments before he whispered, “Then let it burn.”

Boromir’s fingers tightened, his hot breaths still fanning against Faramir’s cheek. And like that they stayed, caring nothing for the minutes that passed, for time melted for them.

His eyes closed, this time he listened to the words coursing through his own heart.

Faramir waited.

Finally, Boromir began to speak.

“I am yours, Faramir,” he said.

“And I am yours, Boromir,” Faramir whispered back.

“Though I have waited too long to tell you that, yet now is the right time for me to tell you that this is not a fate you are by any means bound to.”

He strained to listen to Faramir’s breathing. It was unchanged. He continued quietly, “You can still say no. You can find a man who is not your brother.”

“A man who is not you?”

Boromir was silent as the question sank into his mind. When he said the words, they were mere words. But when Faramir posed the question, it became something on which his very purpose for living depended.

“Faramir,” he breathed, ready at last. “Ours will not be an easy path. But I promise you, you will never walk it alone.”

Boromir pressed his lips against Faramir’s skin, warm and smooth. Slowly their naked bodies came together. And for a time all he could do was stroke his lips back and forth against Faramir’s cheek because his eyes stung and he was letting himself burn.

Then he opened his mouth over Faramir’s, and Faramir lifted it in response.

They breathed for each other for a timeless moment before Faramir sucked Boromir’s upper lip into his mouth, and then Boromir’s tears fell, because Faramir had not kissed him in his sweet childish way for a very long time.

And Boromir knew that Faramir did it now as a farewell and a welcome— for the man who would always be his little brother, yet was no longer a child.

_End_


End file.
